Your Life As a September Issue

“Editor-in-chief syndrome” is a lot like “main character syndrome,” only better because it is new. You can develop “editor-in-chief syndrome” in school if you’re responsible for one too many group projects, or as an adult if your Criterion subscription reaches 28 months. Most often, it’s innate. There are a few ways to determine if you have “E.I.C.S.” You should consider your opinion on leather, or if you’ve noticed a lot of chartreuse lately. If that doesn’t make things clear, a high-density electroencephalogram will show if you have editorial convictions that outrank your pedestrian peers.

Side effects can include a life never quite satisfied—speaking in headlines; accidental alliterations; shudders brought on by even slight incompetency; indigestion; a dizzying amount of cultural awareness; sesquipedalia (the use of very large words); insomnia (the inability to sleep due to very large words); lingering in museums; and an itch right above the neck at the back of the head. Stress will haunt you, and you’ll probably wish you had regular old “main character syndrome,” or any affliction that doesn’t also come with a job description.

You’ll feel it in your Prada boots and under your pashmina where you hide your heart. It’s a sinking, soaring sort of feeling that reminds you fashion is changing and your reputation is on the line. September is coming, and there’s nothing you can do about it. This isn’t just another issue, it’s your life.

Back in April, during last season's prêt-à-porter, when you began preparing for the upcoming autumn, you might have asked yourself: What will be the theme this time around? Will the talent be available? Are these stories worth telling?

The attachés, the lowly interns, the assistants, the fact-checkers, the art department, the specialized interns who unwrap your bonbons, the digital, beauty, and fashion editors—people will all be around you, wondering why the heck you’re calling them these names. With so many supposed subordinates, it can be easy to believe you won’t have time for those cast or commissioned as friends, but the perfect September is not just about work. There are plenty of work dinners and work drinks with designers and advertisers, too. It’s up to you to find balance.

Remember to never befriend a muse, or they might expect adoration long after you’re over them. Contracts are nonnegotiable. “I, [name of Muse], in the interest of both parties, enter into an agreement of exclusivity under which I shall not inspire, promote, nor tickle competing editors for the duration of [name of patron]’s life as a September Issue or until [name of Patron] moves on from me.”

Practice your opinion-making skills. Go to the market with your mom. Are the apples crunchy? Do they recall the texture—real or imagined—of autumn 1979? Do you detect floral notes this season? Take stock of your ability to observe. If you’re unable to even notice the dawdling trends of vegetation, this might not be for you.

Allow yourself the humility to accept that perhaps your perspective matters most in the world. Avoid making enemies with your critiques. Complimentary sandwiches are a sign of weakness. Serve soup instead. “It’s fine for a first draft,” and “I presume you wanted it to look this way” are responses that work every time.

Readers love romance, and there is time for that too. This does not mean partnering up solely for September, though planning a revealing photo shoot with a lover (or three) would be ideal. If you are already partnered, simply reassess. A passé coupling (wherein your partner is an actor but doesn’t have a film to promote), or a marriage incongruent with the season’s trends (say, your partner refuses to join in on wearing clogs) can be resolved. Any reputable legal department can and should handle a divorce.

Vacations (otherwise known as “on location shoots”) are to be taken once a week or more. Ask Donatella to ask Naomi if the Jamaican villa is still available. Ride in a strong man’s backpack across the snowcapped mountains of Japan. Explore the uncharted wilderness of Central Park. Wherever September takes you, be sure to make a statement.

Contradictory to common sense, outfits should not be worn just once but rather up to three times during your Life as a September Issue. First, as your own fit-model, ensuring it lives up to your exhaustive editorials standards. Then, after having communicated the many sartorial changes to your team when you actually wear it down the runway of your life: filling prescriptions, returning overdue library books, walking your 17 poodles. And last, at your in-home studio, to prove that it all actually happened, as photographed by “Richard Avedon Jr.”

You’ll want to be careful with your words. Use “mustard,” “saffron,” or “blonde,” in place of “yellow.” Use “eggplant” and “oyster” for “purple” and “white.” By all means, know the difference between “azure” and “cerulean.” Never call an opera’s “production” “new;” say the “dramaturgy” was “reawakened” or “vivified,” and make sure to note the young tenor playing Figaro was “cherubic” not “cute.”

Producing an unremarkable September even an editor’s letter can’t save will spell the end of your credibility. And if your subscribers decrease, invitations cease. If no one even asks for your opinion on a peep-toe pump anymore, what good are you to society? You can avoid irrelevancy if you turn your discerning eye towards charity work, but let’s not rush retirement. There are still a few good ways to drive up interest. Get behind a controversial piece of apparel like that of an underwear-hat-hybrid, designed so they’ll never fall down. Spark the inevitable conversation and debate that can turn desperation into gold.

In readying yourself for the upcoming October haul, your home has been emptied. Your friends no longer wish to go to the movies with you in case you criticise the costuming aloud. You’ve decried the merits of one too many plats principaux, so you’re no longer welcome at family gatherings unless you agree to keep it to yourself, which you won’t. September has come and gone and you are fashionably divorced. By now, there’s just the ring light, mirror, 70% isopropyl alcohol spray, and the inspiring thought that a romantic remarriage would make a great cover next year.

Michael the III is a writer, photographer, model, and editor-in-chief-in-the-making. His work has appeared in THEFINEPRINT, Gayletter, Document Journal_ and SSENSE.